


Protectorate

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Helen Burns and her father, from the beginning.
Relationships: Helen Burns & Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Protectorate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mary_West](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_West/gifts).



> Thanks to a wonderful anonymous for the title!

**1.**

Helen was always a quiet baby.

She was born into the world without making so much as a peep of sound. James Burns had been lead to believe that babies were always loud and ugly (his mother had many tales of his birth), but Helen was quiet and solemn, big intelligent eyes blinking up at James the moment Maria pressed her into his arms.

Maria named Helen after her own mother, long dead now, God bless her soul. The name was one James couldn’t bring himself to quite like—he had grown up on the old Greek tragedies, and had no wish to see his daughter share the fate of her other namesake.

“It’s all very well to have a war fought over you,” James murmured, “but I would rather have you alive and certain of being safe.” Helen gurgled at him in his arms, and when he pressed a kiss to her cheek she smiled, a soft baby-smile.

**2.**

The second son of an impoverished gentleman had very little fortune and thus could not lead a life of leisure. James’ days were occupied, full of the hard work that came with being a barrister who needed to earn his living and not simply practice as a means of idling his time away.

In the evenings, however, when he came home and Helen had been put down to bed, he sneaked in and read to her.

Maria disliked it. It disturbed her sleep, she said, and growing children needed sleep. Still, she never moved to put a stop to it. She would have, if she truly disapproved. James had married Maria Northwood because she tolerated no nonsense from anyone, and she hadn’t changed since the day they married five years ago, young and still caught in the first flushes of love.

And so James read Helen all his old favourites: Virgil and Cervantes, Plutarch and Donne, piles upon piles of books with spines worn soft with use.

“She couldn’t hope to understand what you’re filling her head with,” Maria would say, shaking her disapprovingly. She was right, of course. And yet—

There was a _look_ , in her eyes sometimes, bright alertness and sharp intelligence.

Helen was meant for greater things, perhaps, than James could imagine.

**3.**

Helen began to walk and talk very young.

“Precocious,” Father Latham said, after service one Sunday morning. “She was just barely born last year, and now look at her! I know children who were silent until they were twice Helen’s age.”

Helen darted a shy glance at Father Latham from behind James’ legs.

She had listened to the hymns wide-eyed and open-mouthed, drunk in the sermon with the eagerness of a pious adult, but now, here, she was a shy child again, holding onto James for the fear of strangers.

Maria laughed. “With the way James reads to her, it’s only a wonder she speaks no Latin.”

“Wait a few months,” Father Latham said, smiling. Then, more seriously, “I’ve no doubt her intelligence comes from her parents.”

James demurred and offered thanks as ritual dictated. But, privately, he thought that Father Latham was wrong. Helen had an old, old soul, and there was little he could do—little his doing would help her—except nurture it.

**4.**

It was a rare occasion that James came in early. But work was quiet just before Christmas. All those who could avoid it delayed seeking a solicitor ‘til after the holidays.

So it was that James walked in to Maria snapping at Helen to focus on her lessons instead of daydreaming her time away like some foolish halfwit.

When James peered around the door, Maria was pale, her hands white-knuckled where they clutched the edge of the table, and she was frowning at Helen in a way that James knew meant she was fighting back a headache. The fault behind the scolding was Helen’s, James had no doubt of that—as sharp as Helen was, she was also absent-minded and careless—but this harshness did not come to Maria naturally.

“I’ll take her off your hands for tonight,” James interceded, stepping into the room before Maria could open her mouth again. At the grateful look his wife shot him, he gathered Helen up into his arms. “Come on, now, I’ll read to you.”

Helen regarded him with her big solemn eyes as he carried her out into the hallway. (And she was getting too heavy for that, now, his little girl growing bigger and bigger, seven years old and counting. He should have stopped a long time ago, really, it wasn’t good for her. But he couldn’t bring himself to.) “Can we read in Latin today?”

“Of course.” Helen loved his old Latin books with a ferocity that astounded James. The words claimed her attention as little else could, and she loved to puzzle out meaning and grab onto sounds she already knew. “As long as you promise to be good for Mummy tomorrow.”

“Everything she says is _boring_.” Helen was pouting, her lip stuck out. “I don’t want to learn any of it.”

“What Mummy says is important too,” James said. “Some important things were boring. And,” remembering the strain in Maria’s voice, “Mummy hasn’t been feeling well these days, so be nice to her, Helen. Promise me?”

(That, James was worried about, how Maria grew paler and paler and wouldn’t stop coughing. He didn’t want to think of it, and yet—

But not now. Not yet. Now, he listened to Helen’s sullen agreements and took her—took his daughter—upstairs to read to her and get her ready for supper.)

**5.**

Maria was—

James could not, would not think it.

Helen was tucked away in bed. James made sure to have her say her goodbyes. She didn’t understand, of course—how could she, child that she was, even as she tried to raise her chin and put on a brave face for her mother. But she knew _something_ , and submitted to Maria’s trembling caresses uncomplainingly.

“Promise me,” Maria whispered, her voice cracked and aching, “Promise to take care of her.”

That was one thing James would always do, of course. Still, he was penniless, now, physician after physician extracting kings’ ransoms from him, and the debtors—

But that was a worry for later. Now, he held onto Maria’s hands and murmured reassurances to her until.

Until.

Helen slipped into the room, some time later. She sat next to Maria, spread her fingers out palm-down over the sheets.

James knew he should send her away, keep her safe, stop the illness from spreading to her. But the lines of uncomprehending grief etched on her face were raw and painful. If she caught something, it would be too late already.

If not—

He was not cruel. He would not deprive her of this last comfort, at least.

**6.**

Alice Haywitch was beautiful and intelligent and open in her interest in him.

More importantly, Alice Haywitch had enough money to clear his debts, and was forthright about it.

“You have need of money,” she said, “I have need of a husband, to still gossiping tongues.”

She had two conditions: James leaving the country and Helen not being in her charge. Two conditions that were appalling, hateful, awful.

But—

Debtors’ prison was worse, James thought, running his fingers up and down the sharp crease of the letter he had received this morning from a friend. And Helen thirsted for knowledge beyond what he could provide.

This Lowood Institute didn’t seem too bad, at all.


End file.
